


take these wings (and learn to fly)

by cappuccinoir



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, katvira (mentioned), lucisan (not the main focus but it's there)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23664211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cappuccinoir/pseuds/cappuccinoir
Summary: sandalphon, nightmares and late-night conversations.
Relationships: Lucifer & Sandalphon (Granblue Fantasy), Lucifer/Sandalphon (Granblue Fantasy), Orchid & Sandalphon (Granblue Fantasy), Vira Lilie & Sandalphon
Kudos: 29





	take these wings (and learn to fly)

**Author's Note:**

> my piece for [the whole world in your hands](https://twitter.com/wmtsbzine), a wmtsb zine. thank you for having me!

_It begins as a dream._

The smell of coffee is one Sandalphon is more than familiar with, comforting in its own way as it envelops him as he works, setting a leisurely pace as he measures out the beans. 

They’re in the garden, their _eden_ — a place where they could escape the watchful eyes of the Astral researchers, a sanctuary only known to them. In this paradise, Lucifer waits for him, contented with watching him brew coffee for the both of them. Sandalphon flusters a little under the other’s gaze, almost spilling the beans in the process. 

He recovers quickly enough, and, after checking to make sure Lucifer hadn’t seen the tragedy that could have been, strides towards the table, heels clicking rhythmically on the stone floor. 

“I’m done,” he hears himself say, as he takes his usual seat, directly across the Supreme Primarch, “How is this batch, Lucifer-sama?” 

“You’re getting better at this.” Lucifer smiles encouragingly at him as he reaches for the cup of coffee— 

—and suddenly Lucifer isn’t there anymore. Sandalphon jumps out of his seat, looking around in confusion and growing panic. His hands grasp at something soft, most certainly not a coffee cup. 

He looks down.

The severed head hits the floor with a muffled thud, and Sandalphon screams, reaching out to claw at the six wings _(that were not his, that were never supposed to be his)_ fanning out from his back, a reminder of what had been lost. The garden is no more, and he is left alone, painfully aware of his new role, and the price it had come at. 

_And, like every dream before it, it ends as a nightmare.  
_

* * *

He jolts awake with a start, running trembling fingers through his hair as he turns on the light. Sleep is impossible now, he knows this (he can still see those hollow eyes staring at him, feel the phantom weight of those six wings, of a role he once wished he had). 

This is not a new occurrence. Ever since that day, he has never been able to get a peaceful night’s rest. Primarchs do not need to sleep, he knows this, but—

The only way he can see Lucifer is in his dreams, dreams that eventually turn into an amalgamation of memories and nightmares, but that alone is worth it, he thinks. 

He gives up on sleeping for the remainder of the night, and instead slips out of bed, the chilly night air a welcome relief to the suffocating stuffiness of the sheets. 

The corridors are silent as he heads towards the kitchen. He does not bother to check the time, knowing that most of the crew would be asleep at this hour, save perhaps the Singularity, who is particularly fond of staying up late planning the next week’s supply runs. Sandalphon has gotten used to their presence enough to invite them to join him for a cup of coffee on such nights (and pointedly ignoring their worried gaze when they catch the tremor in his arms, or spot the white-knuckled grip he has on the coffee cups).

The door creaks open as he enters, only to find someone else already there. 

There is fatigue in her every movement, something dark _(haunted)_ in her eyes as she moves aside to let him pass. He can see it in the paleness of her skin, and the way her gaze darts around the room, searching for things that aren’t there. 

Nightmares temporarily forgotten, he motions for her to follow him. Her lack of verbal response only serves to make the perpetual frown he wears deepen. (He is reminded of her sharp glares and equally cutting retorts, and thinks that he’d much rather be on the receiving end of one of them than see her look like this, not quite broken — but barely holding it together.)

Wordlessly, he begins his nightly ritual of brewing coffee, pouring out the beans with such intense focus one might have thought his life depended on it. 

She watches him brew the coffee, watching — but not really seeing. Her eyes are glassy, hollow in their stare even as a small head pokes out from behind her. 

The primal beast ( _Luminera_ , the blue-haired girl had called it) floats towards him, settling into his hair as he pours the piping hot coffee into two cups. 

(She usually prefers frothed milk with her coffee — nice and fancy, but on nights like these, she takes it black, like he does.)

It takes more effort than it should to keep his hands steady as he walks towards her. Wordlessly, he hands her a cup, which she accepts with a barely noticeable nod of thanks. 

It is far too quiet, he thinks, not for the first time. 

When they’re both seated, steaming cups of coffee in hand, one of them begins to speak.

Sometimes, it is her, trembling fingers curled firmly around the cup as she recalls the blood of her beloved on her hands. Other times, it is him, speaking with long, stagnant pauses as he recounts a severed head and wings (a _purpose_ ) he no longer wanted. 

Eventually, she falls asleep — she is human, after all. He makes to leave quietly, watching the small form of Luminiera settle down next to her as the door swings shut behind him.

He returns a few minutes later, blanket in hand. Humans are unbelievably fragile creatures, he muses as he drapes it over her. Unlike him, she needs all the sleep she can get.

He stays with her as she rests, until the sun peeks out from beneath the clouds, staining the sky various shades of orange and pink as dawn breaks. When he can hear the crew stirring, he slips out and into the shadows. 

(It still doesn’t stop the Singularity from shooting him a knowing look later, one that Sandalphon pointedly pays no mind to.)

* * *

Lucifer has always been out of his reach. This is a fact Sandalphon has long since accepted. 

Still, in this dream, Sandalphon is mere moments away from saving Lucifer, from pushing him away from the spear of darkness that ultimately strikes true. 

He screams — anger giving way into grief and despair, but there’s nothing he can do. 

Lucifer’s form is limp in his arms, and he’s saying something that Sandalphon cannot quite make out. It’s hard for him to focus on anything that isn’t the dying thrum of Lucifer’s core as it fades away, or the shaking of his hands, and the bile that rises up at the thought that once again, he is _too late_. 

He wakes up to the familiar ceiling of the Grandcypher and an equally familiar hollow ache in his chest.

* * *

The next time Sandalphon steps into the kitchen during one of his nightly coffee ventures, he receives some unexpected company in the form of a string-wielding girl, whom he recognises as Orchid.

Sandalphon has started to take note of little things about his crewmates’ coffee preferences. Like how Rackam and Eugen like their coffee with a splash of alcohol, or how Lyria would dump half a teacup’s worth of sugar into hers when she thought no one else was looking, or how the captain seemed fine with anything he made, but an extra portion of milk would make them smile and hum in the satisfied way they seemed to do whenever they got a good drop from a raid. 

Orchid, however, as far as he knows, has never drank coffee before. He eyes her for a brief moment, before adding the same amount of milk and sugar he would for Lyria. A gut instinct, if you will. 

She reaches for the cup with a grateful nod, taking an experimental sip, and Sandalphon watches with muted satisfaction as she gulps down the contents faster than the captain had taken off when Katalina offered to cook dinner a week ago. _Just like Lyria then,_ he muses, and briefly wonders when she and the captain had stopped being ‘the girl in blue’ and ‘the Singularity’. 

“I used to wonder,” she says, “What my purpose was.” 

He stills, letting the bag of beans he had been fiddling with rest on the counter. 

Sometimes, he wonders if he’d be better off not knowing what his purpose had been. 

_Useless. A spare. A pawn to be discarded._

Once, those words had been like stakes through his heart, and later the kindling for his rage. Now, all Sandalphon feels is the acute sting of grief and loss. 

(They say time can heal wounds, but for now, all Sandalphon can think of when he stares at the white wings is that they’re too far too heavy for him.)

She continues, “Apollo and the captain… they risked a lot to help me. Even when I’m...” she gestures vaguely to her torso, “... Not even...” _human_ , she doesn’t say. 

Sandalphon’s gaze is drawn to her neck and shoulders. Where smooth skin should have been are mechanical joints, well-made enough to blend in with the rest of her, but artificial-looking nonetheless. He makes a soft sound of understanding. 

There were many archangels before him who did not have the liberty to think for themselves. Even most of Lucilius’ creations had limiters placed on their emotional parameters, especially after Belial had sat in on an astral conference and provided them with living, breathing proof of why primals should not be given too much freedom when it came to speech and thought. He had heard of them being likened to weapons, machines — marionettes who danced to their puppeteer’s whims, like pawns on a chessboard. Sandalphon had refused to become like them.

(He can still taste the bitterness that rested on his tongue for days after overhearing that fateful conversation. He doesn’t like to think about it.) 

She fiddles with a bag of marshmallows, and he thinks he does a good job of hiding his grimace as she dumps a handful of them into the cup he’s just refilled for her ( _oh no, she’s even worse than Lyria_ ). 

“I shouldn’t exist,” she states this like it’s a fact, and Sandalphon finds himself frowning. She flashes him a reassuring smile. “The first thing I remember… was Apollo. I think it was because Apollo was there, that I was able to… be me.”

He nods. The captain had mentioned something about Orchid being a golem that had developed a personality. Perhaps they were alike, in some sense, he grudgingly admits. 

(The earliest thing he remembers is Lucifer’s face — a gentle smile greeting him as he blinked his eyes open for the very first time, and a hushed voice, radiating barely-concealed excitement. 

_“Good morning, Sandalphon.”_ )

Sometimes, he feels like a stranger, despite having known Lucifer all his life. Now… he won’t ever get to know him, he thinks, and—

“You should talk to someone about it,” Orchid’s voice pulls him back to reality. She’s polished off the sugar saturated _abomination_ he refuses to call coffee and is now standing up, violet eyes staring earnestly at him. It’s eerily similar to one of Lyria’s _looks_ , and he knows he’ll be just as weak to them in due time. “Lyria said that talking helps.” 

He sips at his coffee, now lukewarm, and focuses on the familiar taste like a drowning man clutching at a lifeline. “That’s Lyria for you,” he snorts, “She thinks I need more friends.” 

“More friends are always good,” Orchid nods sagely, her voice drifting through the gaps of the door even after it has swung shut, “Goodnight, Sandalphon.” 

The next morning, Orchid is greeted with a cup of sweetened coffee, the three marshmallows in it bobbing up and down merrily as she takes a small, delighted sip.

_Just right._

Sandalphon’s smile is stiff and awkward — very much like hers when she had first joined the captain and their crew. She returns it with a small one of her own. 

It’s a start. 

* * *

Their eden is gone now — the marble having long since wasted away after thousands of years, the coffee trees having withered away after centuries of neglect. Still, Sandalphon dreams, and his dreams have offered him the tiniest flicker of hope. 

“Luci… fer?”

A cup of coffee is handed to him, just like in every other dream before it. It has to be a dream, Sandalphon thinks, because there’s no way — even if his traitorous mind refuses to believe otherwise. 

He takes a sip, and _oh—_

It’s _real_. Sandalphon doesn’t know how he knows this, but he does. The flicker of hope grows into a flame, warmth spreading through his entire being.

Then, as they are slowly sipping at their coffee, just like they used to in the past— 

_“—dalphon! Sandalphon! Open your eyes!”_

_“—ease wake up, Sandalphon!”_

He wants, so very badly, to stay, even as Lyria and Vyrn plead for him to wake up. 

(Once, he would have — he would have turned around and accepted another cup of coffee without hesitation. Now… now, there are people waiting for him to wake up — friends, comrades… he does not want to give that up.) 

Lucifer is still smiling despite everything, and Sandalphon sees, for a fleeting moment, what could have been. 

In the end, he supposes, this was a dream after all — for he knows he will never be able to return to this place in this lifetime. 

“I’ll be going then,” he smiles his brightest smile, even though all he wants to do is scream and cry. How cruel fate is, he thinks, to let him see Lucifer — alive and well, yet far beyond his reach. 

“I’ll be waiting…” Lucifer says, and Sandalphon is thankful he’s already turned around. 

(The tears won’t stop flowing, no matter how hard he wills them to.)

Before he wakes up, Sandalphon makes one small, selfish wish. 

_I want to have coffee together with him again — in that garden, in our paradise._

* * *

The little detour to Bestia island was the captain’s idea — something about ‘team bonding’, they said. Personally, Sandalphon doesn’t give a rat’s ass about ‘bonding’ with anyone, but Lyria had clung to him and flashed him the most pleading look she could muster, and if he found himself caving immediately, well, no one had to know.

It takes less than five minutes for Sandalphon to decide that something is very decidedly _wrong_. So does Lyria, if the way she’s fidgeting is any indication. The feeling only increases tenfold as they reach one of the island’s many forests. 

“Ah!” a cry from Lyria immediately has him whipping around in her direction. She’s cradling a feather — Lucifer’s feather — in her hands. The plume glows softly in the shade of the trees, before slowly rising up and gliding towards the forest, as if being carried by a breeze. 

(The feeling of _wrongness_ suddenly and abruptly melts into something warmer, something _familiar_.)

The party gives chase, and the feather leads them towards the denser part of the forest, with Sandalphon and the captain running ahead to clear the path of monsters, leaving Rosetta and Yggdrasil to deal with the terrain threats. 

Soon, they hit a wall — almost literally, in the captain’s case. Sandalphon manages to reach out and grab them in time before their momentum propels them face first into a wall of thorns. They smile sheepishly at him before turning to Rosetta, who dispels the thicket of thorny vines with a flick of her hand. The plants recede into the trees, leaving a narrow path in their wake. Sandalphon wastes no time in surging forward, powered by the six wings on his back and a flickering, growing ember of hope. 

As if sensing—the power of the Supreme Primarch resting within him, the ground begins to glow softly. Sandalphon watches as the withered trees begin to flourish, returning to what once had been a—

A garden. It’s _their_ garden. 

He runs ahead, further into the now vibrant hedges and into a grove he thought he’d never see again. Sitting innocuously on a crumbling marble table are two very familiar coffee cups, still as pristine as he remembers when they should have been covered in centuries’ worth of dirt and dust. 

And in the midst of the (their) paradise stands a lone figure tending to a row of flourishing coffee trees, pruning shears in hand as he turns to their little group. 

_“Welcome back, Sandalphon.”_

He doesn’t realise he’s crying until the first of many droplets hits his trembling hands. 

_“I’m back, Lucifer.”_


End file.
